


Roman Holiday

by Bouzingo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail is alive, F/F, Hannibal is far away and still a douchebag, but he's still far away, i don't fucking care, in EUROPE, she gets her happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouzingo/pseuds/Bouzingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail Hobbs is alive and well and living in Rome, with a brand new identity. Though she still has issues to work out, being left alone in Italy is probably the best thing to happen to her in a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roman Holiday

Abigail Hobbs peers at the world from behind Jackie O sunglasses and a floppy straw sunhat. Her sketchpad lies on her lap, and in front of her the Trevi Fountain drowns out most annoyances with its constant, reassuring rush.

One thing Trevi Fountain’s gurgling can’t blot out, however, is the tourists. Especially the lone male Americans.

“Hey,” the guy says. He’d dwarf Abigail by about a foot and a half, and he looks like he came here for the babes. “Nice sweater.”  
Abigail smiles inwardly though she is still stone outside. The sweater was something of her mother’s, a pattern by Kaffe Fassett at his most colourful and most inspired. It comes down to her mid-thigh, and it is perfect for the morning chill Rome often has.

“Did you get separated from your bus tour?” she mutters sardonically, noting too late she should have pretended to have no English.

“Actually, I’m visiting by myself,” the guy smiles, and Abigail bites the inside of her cheek. “I’ve seen you around the last couple of days. You like the fountain, huh?”

“I like it better in the early morning,” Abigail says. “The crowds can get a little bit suffocating.”

“Yeah, I hear you. So, where you from?” he asks. He cannot read body language for crackers. Abigail sighs.

“I’m here on a permanent basis, but I used to live in Ottawa,” she says, the lie easy on her tongue.

“So you’re an American expat,” he says cluelessly. “I’m from Toronto.”

Abigail doesn’t laugh, but oh god she wants to.

“So, you study here?” he continues, courageously.

“Yeah, fine art at Sapienza,” she says, gesturing. “No classes right now, though. So I’m just taking in the city.”

“Very cool,” he says. Abigail nods, and then gets back to drawing the fountain. Eventually, she finds her calm, cool zone, the foundations of the castle in her mind which Dr. Lecter has helped her to build. When she comes back to the tiny café table in Rome, her sketch is finished and the obnoxious tourist is gone.

She tears out the pencil sketch that she’s made, turns it around and writes a letter to Dr. Lecter, signing it Kathy Ruston, her Roman alias. Precious few people understand the reference, which is probably for the best. Even with some considerable cosmetic surgery and new papers, someone might recognize her as Abigail Hobbs.

Kathy Ruston is more sophisticated than Abigail Hobbs, being wealthy, stylish, and fluent in Italian as well as conversational in Canadian French. She has had lessons in etiquette and fine cuisine. Looking at the well-turned-out Miss Ruston, nobody could guess that her most obvious talents were acquired over the course of six weeks under the tutelage of an old Russian woman whose whole job used to be making new names and identities from scratch.

Berenskaya gave Abigail the tools she needed to become the young woman she’d always wanted to be, and Abigail didn’t intend to squander the gift. Rome, the city of love and change, only completed the transformation from Minnesota sweetheart to cosmopolitan lady.

Abigail’s postscript (she always needs a postscript- there is so much she forgets to say) is running long. She finishes hastily in her newly-learned copperplate hand, folds it and stuffs it into one of the powder-blue envelopes she found at a Florentine stationary shop. She drops it into a mailbox nearby, and starts to make her way home.

She has no plans for tonight save cooking dinner and continuing to improve her Italian. She very rarely goes out save to draw and buy food from the marketplace. Without school, she has no reason to maintain friendships, though when classes begin again she will be just as chummy as always. Dr. Lecter worries about her anti-social tendencies; the irony is not lost on Abigail.

Abigail’s apartment is the first floor of a beautiful tenement near the Tiber. Some fresh herbs hang over her kitchen counter, new from the market this morning. She decides to make a simple pasta, with the herbs as the centerpiece flavour. 

Later, as she is eating her spaghettini tossed with fresh herbs and slivers of prosciutto, she reckons she’s quite happy.


End file.
